


to be loved by a beast

by paperlesscrown



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast AU, Canon-based Characterisation, Elizabeth!Betty, F/M, Fantasy, Forsythe!Jughead, One Shot, Reworked Fairytale, alternative universe, fable, fairytale AU, folktale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 14:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21495607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperlesscrown/pseuds/paperlesscrown
Summary: The story wasmostlytrue. There was a beast. A castle. A beautiful girl. A magical rose.But the furniture didn't talk. There was no villain waiting in the shadows. And she was never his prisoner.A Beauty and the Beast AU.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 71
Kudos: 273





	to be loved by a beast

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reworking of the Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont's "Beauty and the Beast," on which the Disney version is based. It includes Jughead and Betty as Forsythe and Elizabeth, and includes many elements from the original.
> 
> This was mostly inspired by Lili Reinhart's beautiful photo from the Governors' Ball, where she was dressed in yellow and surrounded by flowers. It became a bit of a, shall we say, _beast_ after that.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. "Grow" by Adam Pasion, "Mortal Boy King" by Paper Kites and "Gravity" by Sara Bareilles were particular musical inspirations you may want to listen to!

When the witch cursed him to a wretched existence in the form of a beast, he shut himself up in his rooms, bolted the door, and silently brooded, wounded and alone. 

That was the first day. 

But in the days that followed, his anger simmered beneath the surface, and finally exploded. 

He threw things. First: the mirror, for he loathed his reflection, and soon after the bottles of wine he kept for drunken repose in his chambers. Everything else followed in a splintering mess. He ripped his bed in half, and tore his princely portrait off the wall - a taunting reminder of who he had once been. 

He destroyed it all, for _ he _ himself felt destroyed, and knew not what he was. But he took care to shield the witch’s gift from the havoc he wreaked - a single, magnificent rose that had already begun to wilt.

“Watch it closely, serpent prince,” the witch had mocked, using the infamous moniker by which the spiteful villagers called him. He was crumpling to the floor, his body breaking beneath the weight of her curse, beast-blood churning and burning through his veins. “The rose will bloom until your twenty-fifth birthday, and should you find someone to love you - in all your selfishness, vanity and greed - before its end, the curse shall be lifted.”

He groaned in agony as he felt his bones expanding, pushing beneath skin that was rapidly turning to fur.

“But should it wilt to its last petal and die before that day,” she said, “then so will you.” And with that, she dissolved into thin air, leaving him bereft - half-man and half-beast, rapidly transforming into a monstrosity.

He was nineteen. 

* * *

When their story found its way to fable later on, he noted - with amusement - some errors.

For one, he’d never asked for company, nor did he ever think he deserved better than the loneliness he had been fated with. Simply, he wanted to _ die_. The very idea that he would trap some poor merchant into giving him his youngest daughter as a hostage was absurd. He could barely look at himself - why on earth would he seek to show his face to anyone else?

And yet, one morning, there she was - cold and frostbitten at the gate, deposited there by her terror of a father who had sought to cleanse his household after finding his daughter with a book, which, as far as he was concerned, was an ember of coal from the fiery pits of Hell itself. There had been rumours of a beast in the castle on the outskirts of town, and her father had dragged her there to be rid of her and her sin. 

“You want your fantasies so much,” he jeered, “then go and live with them.” And with that, the old man hurled her before the beast’s dark gate, before riding away. 

That was where the prince found her, sitting defiantly with her arms tucked into the folds of her dress as she stared out into the wintry wood. How could he leave her there? Sure, he desired isolation, but he could not let this poor girl freeze out in the cold. He trudged up to the gate, nudged it open, and simply walked away.

He heard a soft gasp escape her - he had been seen. The shame enveloped him, and he nearly flared up in anger. _ Go, _ he wanted to bellow at her. _ Go and tell the villagers you’ve seen the beast. _

But it seemed she was only surprised, not frightened. For she pushed the gate wide open, walked across and followed him into his dominion. 

He did not know what darkness ruled in her home that she would rather live with a beast than with her own father. But he allowed her to stay. He kept out of her way, and she kept out of his. She gave him her name - Elizabeth - but beyond that, he knew little of her. He preferred it that way. 

With their silence, the winter passed.

* * *

The castle was fortified by stone and packed to the rafters with bales of hay for warmth, but in spite of this, it was still cold inside, and the winters of the valley were brutal and long. The beast, however, barely noticed this in his swathes of fur, and would have remained oblivious had he not heard a strange sound echoing through his halls. 

At first, he thought it was some small creature that had crawled in from the snow. Or a wayward clock that needed fixing. Madly, he went from room to room, seeking the source of the sound.

When he came to Elizabeth’s room, he paused at the entrance, unwilling to disturb her. He was going to pass by when he heard it again - that sound.

He looked in. 

It was the chattering of her teeth.

He peeked into the room, and found her shaking, rubbing her hands furiously as she attempted to spark some makeshift kindling that she had gathered into the fireplace. She stamped her feet furiously, trying to generate some heat. 

He cleared his throat behind her, startling the girl. “Are you cold?” he asked.

She laughed (which in turn, startled _ him_) and raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t _ you_?”

“I apologise. I have forgotten what it’s like.” He looked around the room. “I will see to it that you have a fire.”

A small smile of gratitude. “Thank you.”

Despite himself, he was curious to be there - in the privacy of _ her _ room - and he was unable to help himself noticing her belongings on the bed. It was the first time he’d allowed himself to look at her properly. There was a paltry collection of clothing, some paper, a small, cloth-bound book, and a hunting knife.

The last item surprised him. But her hardiness at his gate revealed a girl who was stronger than she looked. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. 

He turned to leave, but she spoke up. “You were not always as you are now… were you?”

“No,” he replied simply. 

“Will it remain?” she asked curiously, without malice.

He shrugged in resignation. “I do not know.”

They were both silent at that. He was aware that she was trying her best not to stare at him in the daylight, but not succeeding. He didn’t mind: her gaze was not harsh, or pitying - it simply _ was. _As though she was trying to see him, trying to glimpse beneath the fur, the monstrosity of who he was now.

Their eyes met, and both flinched. She turned back to the window, and he bowed slightly before sweeping out of the room.

* * *

Soon, spring came. Wolves howled outside the castle as the ice melted and they sniffed blood in the air. Their teeth snapped at the gate as they paced to and fro, and the prince warned her not to walk outside, as was her wont. 

“And what if the wolves leave?” she asked. 

“They won’t.”

“But what if--”

“They’ll never leave while I dwell here, Elizabeth. They’re after _ me_. The beast.” His fur bristled on his back as he growled at her, and he quickly noticed and shook it back down, self-conscious. Afraid of making her fear him.

But she was made of hardier stuff than that. She ignored his prickliness, her green eyes never leaving his (still blue, despite everything). He expected her to argue with him, but she didn’t. Instead, she sighed in seeming acquiescence, nodded, then melted back into the dark corridor in which they’d passed each other, the light of her candle fading into the shadows. With that, he thought the matter was done.

But perhaps the promise of spring was too much - the apple orchards beyond the moat bursting to fullness and carrying the clean, sharp fragrance of fruit over to her window. For what did his walls even hold for her? Of course she would desire freedom. Of course she would venture outside.

It was a bright morning when he noticed that the gate was ajar, and his animal sense picked up on the fact that something was wrong. Ominously, the wolves had not roamed the moat that morning, and upon seeing her empty room, he tore through the castle, crashing through the door as he heard elated howls piercing the air. Only one thing on his mind: _ Elizabeth. _

She was cornered into a rocky glen when he reached her, the wolves snapping at her ankles as she tried to fight them off with a long branch. Something primal stirred in him - whether the animal or the man in him, he didn’t quite know - and he launched himself into the pack. Teeth bit through his flesh, claws clashing with his own as he fought them off while she screamed. There must have been blood - a lot of it - for she was usually brave and stoic and never seemed to fear anything. And yet her cries upon seeing him as he fought echoed off the stones. 

When the last of the wolves skidded off into the forest, he swayed where he stood. She came down from where she was and put her body beneath the weight of his arm. 

“I’m getting you home,” she said.

He was too tired to fight her off, too numbed by the loss of blood to defend his pride. Step by step, they made it back to the castle, and she hauled him into the kitchen to dress his wounds, chopping herbs here and there and boiling them in water to staunch the flow of blood. It hurt, and he argued furiously with her, questioning her methods, but she remained calm and never relented. He was grateful for it. 

She was cleaning up the last of his wounds when the ache in his body made him realise something. “I cannot make it upstairs,” he confessed.

“I’ll make a bed here,” she said. “Would that please you?”

“Not here,” he said. “Outside. Near the door.”

She looked puzzled. 

“The wolves will be back,” he explained wearily. “And I have to stand guard.”

She winced as her eyes swept over his injuries. “No. You cannot--”

“Elizabeth, for goodness’ sake, this is my castle. There is nothing left for me to protect but its walls.” _ And you, _a small voice in him whispered. He was startled by it, by this sudden wave of protectiveness. He ignored it.

“But your wounds… I…” She sighed. “Can I not convince you?”

“I can crawl up the stairs, if you prefer,” he muttered, unable to bite back on a sarcastic retort. “Or you could let me stay here, to guard what is mine.”

She stood still for a while. Her shoulders slumped as she seemingly relented. “I’ll get the blankets.”

He nodded in assent. She walked in the direction of the stairs, then surprised him by stopping and turning around to face him.

“You know, you’ve never told me your name.” 

It shocked him to realise that this was true, and that in fact he had not heard his name uttered in the years of living under the witch’s curse. As his lips formed the two syllables of his birthright, he realised how thrilling it was to hear it again. To reassure himself that somewhere beneath his cursed, beastly limbs, he was human.

“Forsythe,” he said, and it was like exhaling. “My name is Forsythe.”

“Forsythe,” she repeated. “Thank you.”

* * *

The days turned softer and warmer. They could no longer avoid each other as they once did, shuffling past one another in dark hallways. He slept close to the door as promised, and in the mornings, he saw her when she drew up the heavy velvet curtains to let light and air in. When did she start behaving like the mistress of the place? He asked the question with genuine curiosity, for it suited her, and he didn’t mind. 

Now that they were often within each other’s reach, clipped conversations turned into brief inquiries on how the other was doing: _ how were his wounds? Had she eaten? Did he need more bandages? Would her family want to see her? _

The last question caught her off-guard, but she simply shook her head. “My father hated books, and he found me with one.” She stared straight ahead as she said this. “There is no need to return to my home. In his eyes, I am a sinner, and I am dead to him.”

He recoiled. “And your mother...?”

She scoffed. “My mother cares for nought but to save her own skin.”

That night, for once, he pondered a misery other than his own. He still slept close to the door. But he didn’t sleep right away. Instead, he watched the shaft of light emitting from her bedroom, only closing his eyes once it went out.

* * *

He had an idea.

In the morning, he asked her if she had seen much of the castle. She was kneading out dough in the kitchen, and when she looked up, he saw that she had flour all over her face. It was the first time in years that he felt the urge to laugh, but he bit back on it, unsure still of the boundaries of their relationship.

“No, I have not seen much of your castle,” she replied, wiping her face. “Why?”

“Will you…” He cleared his throat. “Will you come with me?”

She eyed him warily.

“There is something I want to show you.”

* * *

It was as he remembered - a cavernous space filled floor to ceiling with books that he had found and bought and hoarded from his travels. Books on every topic in the world, books from every philosopher and poet and playwright, books with glorious illustrations and strange symbols and far-fetched stories - all of them contained on gilt-lined shelves, neat and orderly as he had left them.

The room had not seen light or felt air since he locked it all away, tormented by the day when he sought books for comfort and realised that his beast-cursed eyes could now barely comprehend letters, the lines sliding into each other incoherently. He had not been so furious as to burn it all, and he was glad of that fact now, as he watched Elizabeth enter the room slowly, almost as if she was in a trance. Her green eyes widened as she took it all in.

“These are all… _ yours_?” she whispered.

“They were,” he replied. “Well, I suppose they still are. Although there is hardly any point now - I cannot read them.”

She turned to him, a pained expression on her face. “All these books, and you cannot read?”

“No.” He smiled ruefully. He felt the irony in their situation: that _ she _ was restricted from reading the little that she had, while _ he_, with his wealth of books, could barely identify letters now. “But now, you can.”

“I… really?” she stammered.

“I never thought I’d open this part of the castle again,” he said. “I may never know the joy of reading again, but it is only right that someone else will.”

She continued to gape at the walls around them, every single corner filled with shelves. Her eyes welled up involuntarily. Forsythe turned away, shocked by her tears, afraid to feel what he might feel in looking at her, but not without a final word. 

“It is not as your father says. There is no sin here, Elizabeth - in books,” he said. “There is only your imagination, and that does not condemn you; it frees you.”

He turned towards the door, intending to leave her to read, but he heard her hurried step behind him and was startled when she took hold of his arm. “Forysthe,” she said, stopping him.

He inclined his head, ignoring the rapid beating of his heart. 

“Stay,” she implored. “I will read, but I will not be alone. Let me read to you.”

* * *

And so they read. His memory was sharp: while he could not read the spine and title of each book, he remembered places where his favourites sat, and instructed her to take them down for him so she could read them to him. It was a thrill to hear those stories again, to find himself on the decks of Agamemnon’s ships, on the back of St. George’s dragon, in the dank belly of Jonah’s whale.

He thought that her voice was strong and confident for one who had been barred from reading, and in thinking so, he found himself losing sight of the plot as he listened closely to the lilt and cadence of her speech. Stories long dead came alive once again on her tongue – characters he had forgotten breathed to life again as she spoke them into being.

And beyond that, they conversed. She wondered out loud if he believed, like Dante, that there were nine circles of hell; he argued that there were, and that earth was one of them. He prodded her on the finer points of Machiavelli’s _ The Prince, _which he knew well, and encouraged her to read.

There were days when they would only stop as the stars emerged faintly on the horizon. He would be sheepish and apologetic, while she only shook her head, smiled, held up another book and asked, “One more?”

* * *

Forsythe hardly knew that he was falling in love.

How could he have known? What moment in his miserable life could have prepared him for this? He dismissed the bursting fullness in his heart and called it _ happiness _ instead _ , _hardly knowing that he had named the very hallmark and signature of love. His stare lingered on her as her eyes scanned the pages, and he no longer knew what stories she read, for the only thing he was interested in was the sound of her voice.

And another thing: the wolves were long gone. He remarked to Elizabeth that they would return, but deep down he knew that the pack hunted elsewhere in the summer, and that it would be months before they stalked his gates again. Yet still, he slept against the cool stone wall close to the door, close to where she was, never shutting his eyes before the extinguishing of her light.

He would protect her. He had sworn that to himself. And so he stayed put.

One night, unexpectedly, just as his eyes were drooping to drowsy slumber, he heard her soft footsteps echoing beyond the threshold of her room. Startled, he sat up, just as she knelt down to face him (in the dark, he noted, the green of her eyes still glowed). 

“Elizabeth?” he murmured. “What’s wrong?”

“I know that you do not need to guard me,” she said, with straightforward certainty.

His heart sank. Was this a dismissal?

“But,” she added, “I am... grateful that you do.”

A silence passed between them as he quietly exhaled his relief. He gazed at her steadily. “Would you bid me to go?” 

(_ Are you afraid of me? _he wanted to ask.)

“No,” she replied. “But will you tell me why you stay?”

He blinked at her, uncomprehending. Was his intention not clear? This was his duty. She was a guest in his domain: more than that, a companion. Perhaps even a friend… 

But then—

It came over him in a rush: these were mere excuses, and he was overwhelmed by the sudden realisation that he had stayed because _ he loved her. _ That the books she read to him were not the point, _ never _ the point, and that to be with her _ was _. That if she were in harm’s way, he would gladly tear into another pack of wolves for her.

Elizabeth remained locked in his gaze, unwavering as a tumult of emotions washed over him. He had to look away, so he stared down at his hands – beast paws that had drawn blood, that had saved her that night in the forest.

They would love her tenderly, but could they not destroy her, too?

That epiphany jolted him out of his euphoria, the sudden cold stab of fear. Forsythe backed away from her, horrified by what he felt, what he was endangering her to.

_ To be loved by a beast. _

“I… I have to go,” he said.

“Forsythe?”

He got up. “Do not come near me, Elizabeth. Please.”

She looked stricken. His heart could not bear to look at her, but even more painful was the thought that he could, with one small misstep, hurt her.

Forsythe turned away and flung the doors open. He could only hear his name as she cried out after him, as he bounded out beneath the relentless watch of the cold stars, away from her.

* * *

The fablemakers and storytellers would balk at this. _ How could he do that? _ they would ask. _ How could he leave? _ It was too difficult. And so in the stories, they would have _ Elizabeth _ leaving instead. That seemed simpler: she could run away from the beast, ignoring the fact that beasts existed in all shapes and forms, and that her family was one of them.

The truth was far more complicated than what those stories allowed. The truth was that for three days, Forsythe paced outside the walls of his castle, unable to face Elizabeth but unwilling to leave, stuck in a checkmate of his own making.

Though he left, she was never in any real danger. He would argue that in this case, _ he _ was the true danger, and he was simply removing from her vicinity the very thing that could bring her harm. _ That _was a harder truth to tell in a simple fairytale.

And so after three days, it was decided: he would go on the run. He _ could _ love her and try his best not to endanger her, but could she ever love him back? It was impossible. He was adamant. He would leave the castle, at least for now, and move far away until he could cure himself of this irrepressible condition. _ Love, _ he thought incredulously. _ What a joke. _

On the fourth day, he waited until sundown before scaling the walls and sneaking into the castle. Forsythe knew that he could hardly walk in through the front door unnoticed. Besides, it would be too hard to face Elizabeth. He would simply slip into his room, take what he needed, and leave.

The castle was quiet as he clambered in through a window. There was an odd fragrance in the air, cutting through its usual dusty, heavy scent. Oddly, it reminded him of Elizabeth - of the herbs she sometimes brought in, the flowers she picked to brighten the place, the ink on the pages of the books they read together. 

He thought that perhaps her presence had permeated the place in his absence. A stab of longing pierced through his heart as he thought of the days ahead, when he would no longer see her or hear her voice.

He pressed on. The fragrance was growing stronger now as he moved towards his room. It could no longer be ignored: there was something here beyond the mere trace of her, something more tangible and real.

He turned into the final corner and saw that a faint glow emanated from the doorway of his chambers. Slowing his pace, he felt his heart beat faster, more frantically. The fragrance was all around him now, but more than that, the soft prickle of magic in the air. His fur stood on end, and he held his breath as he stepped in.

He hadn’t seen the place in months, not since he took up his post guarding the door. He remembered it to be dark and dreary, with naught but the witch’s rose and its faint evanescent glow to illuminate the gloom. He had placed it in the middle of the room, under a case of glass to protect it from any threat of damage.

But it was there no longer. The glass was lying in pieces on the floor. And the rose was— 

Well, it was everywhere. 

Forsythe staggered on his feet as he took it all in - roses blooming in a wild array of colour, covering his walls, growing over his splintered furniture, all sprouting from the first cursed rose he had been given. _ That _ rose now lay on the floor, weighted down by the stems that had grown out from it, buried under mounds of budding flowers.

_ Should it wilt to its last petal and die before that day, then so will you. _

The witch’s words. They came back to haunt him now, just as they had in the despondent nights when he had resigned himself to his fate, right before Elizabeth came.

But this time, he heard them differently. Since the witch’s curse, he had always feared that he would die alone, unknown and unloved. He had dreaded the wilting of the rose for so long. 

Never, not in a million lifetimes, did he ever expect it to bloom. 

* * *

How long he sat there, surrounded by a garden of roses, Forsythe did not know. He had no idea what it all meant. He supposed he could guess, but he was too afraid to assume.

_ Elizabeth, _ he thought. _ I need to see Elizabeth. _

He had no idea what he was going to say to her. His first thought was that he wanted to show her the room, if only to see the delight on her face. Or… would that overwhelm her? Should he stay here instead? Wait for her to chance upon him?

_ Madness _. These were mere inklings of fear. He needed to find her.

She was not in her room, although a book lay half-opened on her bed. He hurried to the kitchen, where she could usually be found making her own bread or sorting out herbs. Not there. In a panic, he ran outside, looking to see if the gate was open, if she had ran out. It was bolted shut.

Where else could she be?

Then, he realised. He could have smacked himself for ignorance. _ Forsythe, you fool, _ he thought. _ Of course. _

The purposeful strides he made towards the library felt lighter, freer. He was buzzing in anticipation, his mouth dry as he tried to conjure the words he would say to her. He paused as he stood before the entrance, only entering after one final exhale.

He swooned on the spot as he walked in, and for one fearful second, he felt faint, as if he would collapse. There was something different here. Or in _ him. _ He heard the rustling of skirts and knew that somewhere in the vast room, Elizabeth was turning to look at him. But he could not tell, what was wrong with his eyes, _ his eyes..._

Were reading.

Forsythe blinked. And blinked. And blinked.

_ It can’t be. _

For years, the library has been naught but a blur of colour, mocking him for his sudden inability to read. But now, the dizzying amount of books in the room were crystallising even as he looked around, titles and authors’ names becoming clearer. Aristotle. Socrates. Chaucer. More. Dumas. Milton.

_ Impossible, _ he thought. _ But that could only mean… _

He looked down at his paws.

They were no longer paws. They were hands.

He was human.

At that, he fell to his knees, and let out a primal cry - such as he would have been incapable of in his days as the beastly prince that had ruled the village with pride and arrogance. He was breaking down in gratitude, until he realised...

Elizabeth.

He stood, and turned to look for her. She was in the furthest corner of the room, backed up against a shelf, her hand covering her mouth as she exhaled short, panicked breaths. Hot tears slid down her face, and the sight of it clinched his heart, and it was all he could do not to run over and sweep her into her arms.

Forsythe held his hands up. “I will not hurt you,” he said, slowly walking towards her. “Elizabeth. Please. I am no stranger to you. It’s me.”

His voice, though no longer a low growl, seemed to be familiar to her. Her hand dropped from her mouth, and her body visibly loosened. 

“How…?” She was in shock, disbelief. “Is this… real?” 

“I… I don’t know to explain this all yet,” he stammered. “But I know you, and you know me. Please. Do not fear me.”

She seemed to ponder that. He was desperate. He had to make her believe.

“Ask me anything,” he said. “Anything.”

“If you know me,” she said, “_truly _know me, then tell me the first thing you gave me. After shelter.”

“Fire,” he replied immediately. “I gave you a fire.”

“What else?”

_ My heart, _he wanted to say. Instead, he said, “This room. Everything in it.”

She stepped closer – tentatively, slowly, but surely. “And I?” she said. “What have I given you?”

He laughed. “Trouble, if I’m being honest. Wolves. Scars.”

She blushed at that. Emboldened, he moved even closer. “But also,” he added, “bandages for my wounds. The sound of your voice reading stories I thought I’d lost. The promise of a new world in your eyes. And now…” he trailed off.

Her voice, when it came out, was small and timid and hopeful. That was how he knew. _ Really _ knew. That against all odds, he loved, and _ was _ loved in return. “Now?” she asked.

“A new life,” he said. “And a new story.”

And with that, though he hardly knew what he was doing, he closed the gap between them, and he kissed her - writing into that kiss the passion of a burning sun, the urgency of an oncoming storm, and the tenderness of a thousand blooming roses.

* * *

What does ‘happily ever after’ entail?

Storytellers, Forsythe always said, had no imagination if they left it hanging at such a trite ending. The best kinds of stories lived because they grew, because they bloomed in the reader’s imagination, because they were built on the inherent knowledge that, in fact, people _ were _interested in the ever after.

So he would insist on telling the story beyond what the fairytales elaborated on. No, he would not tell them how long that first kiss lasted, or where he took her after it became abundantly clear that neither of them wanted it to end. To put it _ delicately _, she never returned to her old room again, and from that day, his chambers – with their wildness of roses – became hers, too.

But on the matter of how they both lived, and how _ happily, _he would gladly tell of that.

He would tell them that the orchards flourished again under their care, and that the villagers - though initially terrified - were welcome to pick from it. He would tell them of how she shared her herb-lore with others, and invited the village’s younglings into the library, teaching them to read. He would tell them that he had _ intended _ on teaching her how to wield a sword, to defend herself against wolves, but was outmatched by her quick knifework, at which he knew that his lessons were useless.

He would tell them that the roses never stopped blooming all year around, and that they both slept under it, laughing in the morning when they woke up covered in petals.

Finally, he would tell them that though he could comprehend letters and sentences again, he never stopped insisting on having her read their books to him.

Besides, he knew.

No-one else could bring a story to life like her.

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I never used to like writing AUs, and yet here I am. The last three or four fics I have written are set in alternative universes, and I think this is because I love this idea that wherever I throw those two characters - whether it be a fairytale, or a decadent mansion, or the video clip for "Senorita" - they always find a way towards each other. It speaks to the magnetism of Bughead, that they always just _stick_.
> 
> "to be loved by a beast" attempts to take some of the core characterisation of Jughead and Betty from the show - his self-deprecation in S1, her horrible parents, his protectiveness of her, their shared love of reading- and twist it into a unique situation. I've always loved "Beauty and the Beast", but I wanted to take out the Stockholm Syndrome elements of it and instead craft a story of two broken souls falling in love with one another. 
> 
> There are some nods to the canon material, i.e. "serpent prince", but mostly I feel like this is a new story, with our two beautiful characters coming along for the ride.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this. It has been a labour of love that I am proud of.
> 
> Special thanks to Mella and Jandy for your eyes over this and kind encouragement.


End file.
